


asbestos and formaldehyde

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Deal with a Devil, Drowning, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, No Dialogue, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Punishment, Purgatory, bullet wounds, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9600302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: For only the second time in your existence, you are truly sorry.





	

**Author's Note:**

> What happens when you give me the h/c prompts: drowning | purgatory | bullet wounds | and a free square (survivor's guilt)? 
> 
> This fic, of course. 
> 
> There are no apologies for what I've been putting my characters through lately, but I promise -- I'm not a horrible person. :)

_You are saying nothing, but your tongue is getting blacker all the time._

  * Necessary Evil, The Dresden Dolls



 

The way she looks at you is enough to stop your heart, even after she’s ordered to drop her gaze and pay her respects. You want to tell Lorelei, _it’s fine_ , but you don’t. Instead, you nod and move forward, ignoring the _screams_ and the repeated shouts of _why_ until you’re safe behind closed doors.

 

She might hate you, you think, but she’s not _dead_. Her lungs aren’t full of water, her bloodstream’s not full of lead, and at least, she’s not a bloody stump. You tell yourself, _it could be worse_ , while your stomach churns and twists because you’re to blame for her being here.

 

Red John tells you, as he runs his fingers through your damp curls, you _chose smartly_.

He tells you, as you deep throat him (balls and all), you _saved them from unnecessary distress._

He tells you, as he spills into you, _it could have ended differently_ —but you don’t see how.

 

You’ve lost your wife and daughter. You’ve lost your family—her team. You’ve lost your freedom and above all, you’ve lost your best friend and your partner.

 

For only the second time in your existence, you are _truly_ sorry.

 

Not that it matters, because what’s done is done.

 

You cannot raise the dead, any more than you can kill Red John, the man who killed your wife and daughter; your family (her team); your freedom…

 

But he _won’t_ kill your best friend and partner, because her survival depends on how well _you_ can play the part of a devoted companion; and you’ll be _damned_ if you get her killed too.

 

::::

 

You know she’s tried to kill herself once or twice, because that’s how many times you’ve had to punish Lorelei. Lorelei, who wears short dresses and likes to be fist-fucked and considers humility to be _crawling around on all fours_.

 

Red John doesn’t need to teach you how to make Lorelei suffer, because the two are practically interchangeable.

 

You hit, and hit, and hit, until your knuckles are raw and the pristine walls of white are stained with your sins. You hit, and hit, and hit, until you’re told _that’s enough_ and you say _okay_ , but you really think, _no, it’ll never be enough_.

 

::::

 

The way she looks at you, nearly brings you to your knees. Her emerald eyes (once vibrant, once alive, and once reminding you of better things to come) are now without light—and that’s your fault too.

 

You want to blame Red John. You want to blame Lorelei.

 

Because they’ve done truly, horrific things to her.

 

But you can’t, not completely anyway; because so _have you_ and you have no excuse, aside from the fact, you are _selfish_.

 

And you don’t need to be a mentalist to know, she blames you too.

 

_Saint Teresa_ , you think with a sad smile that goes as quickly as it comes; because she’s no more a saint than you are Red John’s _trophy_.

 

Lorelei, you’re sure, has already seen to that.

 

You tell yourself, _she would have chosen smart too_. Three plus you and she for the good of humanity—but you _know_ she wouldn’t have, because your Teresa Lisbon was good and wholesome.

 

And you…

 

Well, you were never quite so lucky. Now, were you?

 

::::

 

You sometimes wake, lying next to Red John, with horrors on your tongue.

 

You dream of bathtubs, and bullets, and bloody stumps. You dream of lifeless eyes and disembodied voices, telling you, you are _no better Red John_.

 

The man lying next to you, snoring into the night, is responsible for over a _dozen_ deaths, and he can sleep soundly at night; but you can’t—even though, you didn’t pull the trigger or hold them down.

 

You just said _yes_ , and yet, you dream.

 

Red John tells you once, as he offers you sedative after sedative, _it gets better_.

 

But you don’t think it will, because all you see are _bathtubs_ , and _bullets_ , and _bloody stumps_ , and _her_ lifeless eyes when you close yours.

 

Hell may not exist, but if it did…

 

_If it did_ ….

 

_This would be it_ , you think.


End file.
